Two more years, she thought. Two more years of training, and my magic will be powerful enough to serve the tsar and the empire. Maybe then her figurative jinni bottle would finally be big enough.
Vika jumped over logs and wove through moss-covered rocks. As she hurdled over Preobrazhensky Creek, which burbled as if it had its own lesson to hurry to, she spotted her father, sitting on a log. His tunic and trousers were muddy from his morning spent digging up valerian root. There were leaves in his beard. And he was whittling a chunk of wood. Never had a baron looked so much like a peasant. Vika smiled.
“The bread smells delicious,” Sergei said, angling his nose at Vika’s basket.
She grinned. “Perhaps I’ll let you have some in exchange for starting my lesson.”
“Sixteen years, and still no patience.” The laugh lines around her father’s eyes deepened, as if his plow had gone straight from his vegetable fields onto his weathered brown skin.
“You confuse impatience with enthusiasm,” Vika mock-scolded. “Just because I’m the only enchanter in the empire doesn’t mean I’m going to rest on my laurels.”
Her father dipped his head, conceding her point. “Have you put up the shield?”
“Of course.” She’d had lessons for a decade now, ever since she was old enough to understand that enchanting was not only for fun, but also for serving Russia and the tsar. Casting an invisible barrier around the forest before starting a lesson was something she did automatically, without a thought.
Still, Vika glanced over her shoulder, to make sure a villager hadn’t strayed into the woods. Her entire life, her father had hammered into her that people had been burned at the stake for much less than what she could do. And Vika didn’t fancy a death engulfed in flames.
But no one was in the woods today. That was another reason they lived on this tiny forest of an island. There were but a few hundred people on Ovchinin Island, and they all lived on the flatlands, near the harbor. Up here in the hills, it was only Sergei, a mild-mannered scientist obsessed with medicinal herbs, and Vika, his doting (if not entirely obedient) daughter.
“All right,” her father said. “I’d like you to create a lightning storm. No need for rain, just dry lightning. And aim for that tree.” He pointed to a birch twenty feet away.
“Why?”
He shook his head, but there was a gleam in his eyes. “You know better than to ask why.”
Which was true. He wasn’t going to tell her what the lesson was. That would ruin the surprise. Besides, Vika liked surprises.
Behind her, something darted out of the shrubbery. Vika spun toward it, hands poised to freeze whatever it was. But it was only a pheasant dashing into another bush—nothing unusual, and certainly not the start of her lesson. She laughed, and her voice echoed through the wispy white trees. But when she turned back to the log where Sergei had been sitting, there was only empty space.
“Father?”
Huh. Where had he gone? Then again, this was not out of the ordinary. Sergei often removed himself from the scene of the lesson so she could work things out herself. He was probably somewhere safely away from her impending lightning storm.
Speaking of which, the lightning wasn’t going to summon itself.
Vika set down her basket, raised her arms, and focused on the invisible particles of electricity in the sky. They flitted around like sparks of static dust, content to whirl through the air by themselves. But that wasn’t what she wanted. Come together, she willed them. Come and play with me.
The sky hummed, and then out of the clear blue came a deafening crack that split the silence. Vika covered her ears at the same time the lightning hit the birch tree twenty feet away and lit the trunk on fire.
As soon as the bolt struck, a silver wire flared. It had been camouflaged among the leaves, but now, as electricity blazed through it, Vika saw that the wire connected the first birch to a ring of fifty others. The initial fire spread so quickly, it was as if lightning had struck every single tree.
Her father might not have had much magic—he was a mentor, not an enchanter, so he could only manage small-scale conjuring and charms—but he was expert at setting elaborate traps. Vika was surrounded by flames and bitter smoke. The tree trunks teetered.
Vika smiled. Here we go.
As one of the trees began to fall, Vika shoved her hands outward to force the wind to push the tree back upright. It would have worked, if only one tree were falling. But there were fifty or so birches, all seething with fire and ash and toppling toward her at a speed too quick for her to reverse the motions of them all.
What to do, what to do . . .
The trees were nearly upon her.